


Playing Forward

by yehetmeup



Series: GOT7 Colors Series [1]
Category: GOT7
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-09
Updated: 2018-12-09
Packaged: 2019-09-15 02:56:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,348
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16925196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yehetmeup/pseuds/yehetmeup
Summary: College!AU, Jock!AU. After a flying soccer ball knocks you over on your morning run, the player behind it aims for your heart as well. Color: Green.





	Playing Forward

Music pounds in your ears as you sprint around the track, furiously swinging your arms. Legs straining, you round the turn, approaching the invisible spot on the track you’d marked as your starting place. The smooth sounds of James Blake carry through the headphones you wear, so incongruous with the frantic motion of your body as you run.

Ten more strides to the finish. Five. Three, two, one. You cross the imaginary finish line and stutter to a stop, breathing in deeply as you try to slow your heart rate and catch your breath. Quickly pulling your arm up to look at your Fitbit, you check the time.

One mile - nine minutes, seventeen seconds. You huff out a laugh, dropping your hand to your waist as you slowly start your cool down lap around the track. It’s not as fast as you like, but you’re pleased at the progress anyway. The endorphins flowing through you make you almost giddy with happiness, enjoying the exercise that’s slowly becoming a regular part of your morning routine.

Finally looking up from the track, you take in the scenery. The college’s sports field is lit by the early Friday morning sun. The dew on the track and the field it encircles is evaporating, creating little rainbows in the air. The rich green of the turf field shines, still damp from the heavy rain last night. The stadium, usually packed on busy game nights, is quiet save for a few athletes running up and down the stairs. At least, you assume it’s normally packed; you’ve never been inside for a game before. You’ve only heard the loud cheering from within on your way back to your dorm from late nights in the research lab.

Your breathing slows as you come around the second bend, sighing with pleasure at the satisfying feeling of exertion in your limbs. After a long first month of classes, labs, and hours spent at your internship, you began pushing yourself to get out in the mornings to run. Or at least, to jog. Anything to get your tired body moving, to give your mind a break from the busyness of your junior year and to ward off the malaise that inevitably came when fall made the sun rise later and set earlier.

After a lap of easy walking you pick up the pace, settling into an steady jog, planning to do a gentle mile and a half or so before heading back to the dorm to wash up before your first class. There’s a few other runners out on the track with you this morning. A pair of girls in sweatpants and messy buns, laughing together as they jog, and a few older runners, probably professors or grad students.

A group of men are making their way to the middle of the field, carrying mesh bags of soccer balls. They stretch and start doing warm up drills, you notice in your peripheral vision as you jog. They are all fit and good looking in that clean-cut, All-American way, joking with one another as they practice. They wear similar outfits; slim fitting track pants or purple and gold shorts, white tank tops or black sleeveless shirts with slits under the arms, revealing large swaths of toned muscle.

The song in your headphones switches up to an energetic techno track and you pick up your stride. A few minutes later as you’re winding down your workout, an electronic beep comes through the headphones and you pull out your phone, groaning when you see it only has 3% battery life left. You must have forgotten to charge it when you passed out after coming home last night from a study session.

You hear a muffled cry from the direction of the field, a raised voice above the music in your ears. You turn your head quickly to find the source of the commotion. In the seconds between noticing the soccer ball flying at you and it hitting you squarely in the chest you desperately try to turn out of the way. But it moves too fast for you to get very far and with a whoosh of air out of your lungs you fall towards the ground.

You wince as your butt hits the track, jarring you. Your headphones pop out of your ears as your phone falls out of your pocket and off to the side. You catch yourself on your elbows, thinking in a rush that you’re grateful you wore the long-sleeved exercise shirt today.

Dazed, you sit there for a moment, shaking your head. You bend forward, resting your arms on your knees, stretching the muscles, confirming that you’re unharmed. Bruised maybe, and you’re sure that your ass it going to hurt tomorrow, but thankfully not injured. Male voices are calling out from the field. A chorus of “dude, what was that aim?” and “you’re supposed to hit on girls, not actually hit them with stuff.”

Looking up you see one of the players sprinting toward you, the rest of the team paused in their scrimmage behind him. As he approaches, an apologetic look on his handsome face, you can’t help but notice his body. Toned muscles strain through the thin fabric of the exercise pants he wears. Long, lean sides and muscular arms exposed by the slits in his shirt. His black hair is heavy with sweat, brushing back and forth across his forehead as he runs toward you.

Even if you weren’t reeling from your fall, you think to yourself that you might be stunned just from how attractive he is.

He reaches you and crouches down next to you, eyes roaming your body, trying to assess the damage. “I am so sorry,” he starts emphatically, his dark eyes fixed on yours, his breathing still rapid from the game he’d been playing. “I blocked the ball to the side and it hit my foot at an odd angle. I swear it wasn’t intentional. Are you all right?” he asks anxiously.

You nod. “I’m fine. I just wasn’t prepared to encounter any flying objects on my morning run,” you say, teasing. 

“You sure you’re all right?” he presses, standing up and holding out his hands to help you up. 

You reassure him that you’re just fine, slipping your hands into his larger, rougher ones and letting him pull you up. You’re both still breathing deeply, and you can feel the heat radiating off his body at his close proximity. In the morning light his brown eyes take on an almost amber tone, striking as they meet yours.

After a moment he breaks the silence. “Let me make it up to you. Can I buy you coffee sometime?” he asks rapidly, looking hopeful. 

If he was just being polite, you would have waved him off, saying not to worry about it. But there’s an appraising look in his eyes as he takes in your body clad in your close-fitting workout clothes, pausing for a beat on your breasts, your legs. You can’t deny you’re attracted to him, and it has been forever since you made time to go on a date.

You nod. “All right, that sounds fair,” you say, smirking at him. He pats his pockets, as if trying to find his phone. With a look back at the distant end of the field you see a haphazard pile of bags and jackets. He looks down and finds your phone on the ground, and bends to pick it up. “How about I give you my number?” he says handing it to you.

“Sounds good,” you say and hit the button to unlock your phone, but it does nothing. Pursuing your lips you try again, confused that it’s not lighting up. For a moment you worry that the fall broke your phone, but then you remember that the battery was almost out a few minutes ago. “Shoot, my battery’s dead,” you say, groaning and shake your head.

“How about we pick a time and a place to meet,” he offers. “Let’s go old school,” he says with a lopsided, boyish grin.

“Hmm… how about Parnassus Café at ten on Sunday?” you suggest, naming your favorite little coffee shop on campus, hidden in the basement of the art building.

“Perfect. I’ll be there. What do you take?” he asks. His teammates start calling out from behind him, shouting sarcastic versions of Get a room already! and he turns and holds up a finger, telling them he needs another minute.

“Just a chai tea latte for me,” you say, turning to begin the walk back to your dorm room. “See you Sunday, champ.”

“See you then, gorgeous,” he says with a wink, and starts running back to the scrimmage.

You drag yourself out of bed Sunday morning, yawning as you go about your morning routine. The dorm is quiet as it only is on Sunday mornings, when everyone is wrapped up in bed, sleeping off the night’s activities or catching up on sleep. You stand in front of your closet, debating. Finally you settle on slim fitting jeans, a black v-neck shirt, and your favorite olive green jacket with a faux fur hood. Casual, yet flattering. You gather your hair up into a low ponytail and swipe on some light mascara.

As you approach Parnassus you see a man standing out front, holding two to-go cups. He’s wearing a cozy-looking blue sweater, his dark hair brushed back from his face; stylish black rimmed glasses perch on his nose. With a start you realize it’s the soccer stud. He looks so different off the field you hardly recognized him. He’s just as handsome as he was yesterday, only with a completely different vibe. When he notices you standing there his face cracks into a wide grin.

“Hey there, gorgeous,” he says and hands you the cup. You smile at the nickname.

“Hey there yourself, champ,” you reply, wrapping your hands around the warm cup.

“Well, thanks for the coffee. See you later,” you say brightly and turn to leave. A shocked expression comes across his face and you smother a giggle.

“Wait,” he says, reaching over to put a gentle hand on your arm. “You’re not going to even give me a chance?” he asks, his face light with suppressed laughter.

“Ohhh, you actually wanted to hang out?” you say, grinning, drawing out the words. He lets out a laugh, a pleasant tenor sound, and you laugh with him.

“Yes, I do,” he says, returning his gaze to yours, his expression turning intent.

You duck your head for a moment, pleasure coursing through your body at his obvious interest in you. You would have pegged him to be the “hit it and quit it” kind of jock, but you’re pleasantly surprised. 

“So, want to take a walk through the quad?” you ask, taking a sip of your delicious drink.

“Sound perfect,” he says, and he motions you forward ahead of him as you take the stairs back to ground level.

The campus is gorgeous in the fall, the plentiful trees on campus turning vibrant shades of red and yellow. When you exit the building he falls into step beside you, staying close. “So, I take it you’re on the soccer team?” you ask.

“Yeah, it’s my fourth year. I’m a senior,” he replies. “I play forward,” he says with a smirk.

“So I’ve noticed,” you joke with a wry grin.

He gives you a playful wink as you take the steps down into the quad, absent of it’s usual crowds of students this early in the morning. You fall into an easy back-and-forth of conversation with him. He tells you about the soccer team and you tell him about what motivated you to start running. He asks about your major and you tell him about what got you started on your Biology degree, and your desire to become a medical researcher.

“Going to save the world, huh?” he jokes, but his interest is obviously peaked. 

You turn the question back on him, and find out he’s a sustainable design major, interested in working in city planning to come up with affordable housing solutions. He speaks passionately about an internship he did freshman year that sparked his passion to create safe, accessible housing available to all. His soccer scholarship keeps him busy between classes and volunteering, but he says he loves the challenge.

“Who’s trying to save the world now?” you tease, even as you’re drawn in by his earnestness, and the cute way he uses his hands to emphasize his points.

As you walk laps around the large paved quad you learn that you share an interest in British comedy films and street tacos, and that he’s good friends with one of your labmates this semester. He launches off on a long story of the time that they almost got arrested together in high school, trying to figure out how to rig up a fireworks display for their friend’s sister who was stuck at home sick on the 4th of July. That in turn makes you recount a hilarious experiment a few weeks ago where the guy in question had slipped in a dissection and spilled squid samples all over the lab floor.

Eventually your rumbling stomach makes you realize it’s lunch time. Looking at your watch you’re bewildered by the fact that almost two hours have already passed; it hasn’t felt like more than fifteen minutes. You want to keep talking with him and venture a guess he’d like to as well. 

“So, how about we get lunch? This time it’s on me,” you ask, carefully watching his face for any sign that he wants to leave.

“Excellent idea,” he replies easily. “I know just the place.” 

You walk a winding route to the small Italian restaurant on campus. Cheap, big portions, and delicious baked lasagna; the perfect place for two college students. The two of you are so lost in conversation that you hardly break the flow as you get seated, quickly scan the menu, and place your orders.

Long after you’ve eaten and the waitress has cleared your plates and run your card, you’re still talking. His easy laugh, his obvious intelligence, and his warm eyes, appreciatively watching you from behind his glasses; everything about him is drawing you in. A while later a muted buzzing sounds from his pocket. He pulls out his phone.

“Sup?” he says into the phone once he sees who is calling, hitting the speaker phone button.

A loud, urgent male voice comes out. “Dude, where the frick are you? I’ve been texting you for like, half an hour.”

He wrinkles his brow in confusion. “What do you mean? Where am I supposed to be?”

“Umm, you idiot. It’s Sunday? The game starts in half an hour and no one has seen you. Get your ass over here,” the voice insists and he checks the time on the phone. It’s 4:30. His body goes rigid with shock.

“Oh, crap. I’ll be right there,” he says and rubs a hand over his face.

“I’ll keep Sully off you, just hurry up!” the voice says and the line goes dead.

“We’ve got a game at five tonight, I guess I lost track of time,” he says, giving you a rueful smile.

“Yeah, I can’t believe how late it is already. Don’t let me keep you,” you say, grabbing your purse and quickly signing the receipt. You’re acutely aware that this date, or whatever it is, is now at the point where one of you would make the executive decision of setting up another one. But he surprises you yet again.

“Have you been to a game before? I’d love to have you there,” he says with a sweet smile.

“No, I haven’t. Are you sure? I wouldn’t want to get in your way,” you reply.

“Not at all. Besides, with you there it will give me extra incentive to show off,” he says with a wink.

“All right, then. Let’s do it,” you say, beaming at him.

He reaches out to grab your hand, moving to the door of the restaurant. You hitch your purse higher on your shoulder as the two of you take off running across campus toward the stadium.

The stands are indeed packed, as you assumed they would be. The soccer team is ranked in the top ten in the nation, according to the girl next to you. Stephanie? Melanie? You can’t quite remember her name among the several girls you were introduced to in the “friends and family” section in the front row behind the team’s bench, where your date insisted you hang out.

She’s so sweet during the game, pointing out all the players, explaining their positions. She’s dating Daniel Sullivan, Sully, the captain of the team, “He’s a senior too, like JB,” she says. When you realize she’s referring to the guy you’ve been out with all day, you laugh to yourself. In all the talking you’d done, you’d never introduced yourselves.

It’s a close game, the rival team scores a point early after a miscommunication had two defenders both tied up on the other side of the goal. In the 38th minute of the game Sully manages to get the ball into the bottom corner of the goal off a corner kick. Caught up in the excitement, you scream right along with the girl next to you, hugging her back when she wraps an arm around you.

The minutes tick down and the team calls a timeout, running over to the sidelines to huddle up and discuss. JB looks incredibly hot, you think to yourself, his shirt damp with sweat, his broad chest on display as he stands his hands on his hips. When they break the huddle you call out, “Go get ‘em, JB!” He turns to you and blows you a dramatic kiss that makes you laugh.

Thirty seconds on the clock and the ball is in play. Sully breaks away and moves up the field toward the opposing team’s goal, JB tears down the field opposite him. A pass back to the midfielder. With a quick stop and turn, JB’s past his defender, breaking toward the goal. The midfielder heaves a huge kick, sending the ball into an arch. Leaping into the air, JB whips his head to meet the ball, sending it into the top corner of the goal, just out of reach of the goalie’s hands.

The buzzer announcing the end of the game sounds, but it’s hardly heard over the cheering of the crowd. You grin as you watch him get swept up into a hug by his teammates, everyone smacking him on the back and rubbing his head. You’re pulled into another joyful hug by Melanie, you clarified her name during a snack run at halftime. After a few minutes JB turns to look at you, smiling widely, and starts running over.

He reaches you in a rush, leaning against the low dividing wall. Your hands come out to hold onto his shoulders so he doesn’t fall forward, both grinning excitedly at each other.

“Congratulations, stud,” you say cheerfully. His gaze drops to your lips and then back up to your eyes, darkening as they seem to decide on something impulsively.

His hands slide up to cup your face as he leans down to you, his eyes searching yours for any sign of objection. Your hands tighten on his shoulders and you give him a broad smile. Satisfied, he closes the distance and kisses you in earnest. 

His passion catches you off guard but you catch up quickly, burying your hands in his sweaty hair to hold onto him. You taste the sweat on him as his lips work against yours. He smiles against your lips and his eyes are bright when he pulls back, keeping you close.

“So, can I buy you dinner? It’s on me,” he says with a grin.

You nod, smiling back, and grab his jersey in one hand to drag him in for another kiss.


End file.
